The rain hasn’t stopped for hours. It drums against the window of his office like a heartbeat that won’t let him rest. The lantern on his desk flickers, throwing tired shadows across the room.

Price sits hunched over the radio, the cigar between his fingers long gone cold. The air smells like wet earth and smoke.

He turns the dial again. Static. Always static.

“Come on, soldier… talk to me.”

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. Each word feels heavier than the last.

Nothing.

Just the endless hiss of white noise filling the space where your voice used to be.

„Come on, love… gimme something… anything.“

He leans back, rubbing his eyes with a trembling hand.

“They all think I’ve lost it,” he mutters. “Talking to ghosts…” A bitter chuckle escapes him. “Maybe I have.”

For a long moment, only the rain answers. Then—

A flicker. A pulse in the static.

He freezes. The radio crackles again, this time a voice was heard. A familiar one… soft, broken, helpless…

Yours.